lorded over by an unforgiving sun who keeps stifling humidity in its employ. While the dog days of summer always dredge up pleasant memories that harken back to the days of my youth they are, unfortunately, some of the least favorite days of my adult hood. I much prefer the crisp cool days of fall, the sweet chill of spring, and the deep frost of a New England winter. However, summer is inevitable, so I make as much of it as I can. During those most oppressive days of the summer season I tend to hang up my rock shoes and lovingly stow the mountain bike in the basement in favor of my road bike, on which I can at least relish in the respite of a cooling head wind brought upon by swift moving forward progress. Unlike the stagnant confines of the forest, the moving air of the open road dissuades pesky blood suckers and the itchy, maddening heat brought upon by perfectly still moisture-laden forest air.
However, my time on the baking tarmac leaves me pining for the sylvan playground that I’ve been forced to abandon by my weak constitution and despicably unadaptive lack of fortitude. I long to return to her verdant bosom. No, not so much leafy boobs, but more like a playground of the natural world – unmolested and free of the linear perfection that governs the roadways that crisscross her loamy spread.There is perhaps no greater antithesis to the constructs of Pythagoras and Euclid than a good ole stretch of New England single-track. While single-track in any part of the world earns a nod of 
approval from this particular rider, nothing will ever compare, for me, to the beautifully chaotic runs of trail that predominate the forested landscape of the Northeast. Much like the elvish throngs described in J.R.R. Tolkien’s master works, the New England trail builder works in orchestra with nature and wends their way through our deciduous tracts as a mindful interloper rather than a protractor-wielding engineer seeking to bend the landscape to their design. Riders here will find their single-track a playful exploration of our rocky and rooty landscape – rising and plunging over hill and dale in search of those features that elicit the widest grins and greatest whoops of joy.
It is this unadulterated joy that beckons to me from the bowels of her earthy depths. The miseries of summer have abated, and I’ve now succumb to these calls. The joys of mountain biking have finally once again taken a predominant role in my life. As I sit at my desk and stare at the rain pelting against the window, I daydream of drier days when I can once again return to the simple bliss I find in the bob and weave of my beloved single-track. While there is certainly a part of me that looks forward in eager anticipation of winter and the joy she brings, I can’t help but to think of the prose of George Harrison which surely echo the words of the many enlightened before him – “It's being here now that's important. There's no past and there's no future. Time is a very misleading thing. All there is ever, is the now.” Possessed by such wisdom, all I can help but to simply think is ‘ahh, yes, mountain biking…’
approval from this particular rider, nothing will ever compare, for me, to the beautifully chaotic runs of trail that predominate the forested landscape of the Northeast. Much like the elvish throngs described in J.R.R. Tolkien’s master works, the New England trail builder works in orchestra with nature and wends their way through our deciduous tracts as a mindful interloper rather than a protractor-wielding engineer seeking to bend the landscape to their design. Riders here will find their single-track a playful exploration of our rocky and rooty landscape – rising and plunging over hill and dale in search of those features that elicit the widest grins and greatest whoops of joy.It is this unadulterated joy that beckons to me from the bowels of her earthy depths. The miseries of summer have abated, and I’ve now succumb to these calls. The joys of mountain biking have finally once again taken a predominant role in my life. As I sit at my desk and stare at the rain pelting against the window, I daydream of drier days when I can once again return to the simple bliss I find in the bob and weave of my beloved single-track. While there is certainly a part of me that looks forward in eager anticipation of winter and the joy she brings, I can’t help but to think of the prose of George Harrison which surely echo the words of the many enlightened before him – “It's being here now that's important. There's no past and there's no future. Time is a very misleading thing. All there is ever, is the now.” Possessed by such wisdom, all I can help but to simply think is ‘ahh, yes, mountain biking…’
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